


that, my friend, is a dark side

by acid_glue234



Series: it only took three months (four years and three months) [1]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11300445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acid_glue234/pseuds/acid_glue234
Summary: you've never been the type to force conversation, but you're curious about her. you'll admit it, but only to yourself. there's something about her that you can't quite put a finger on. and you want to know what it is.





	1. maybe we'll meet again

**Author's Note:**

> title #2: Blue Springs, I Love You
> 
> (based on and inspired by the dialogue from "New York, I Love You")

  **july 2014**

 

it starts in nebraska of all places, outside of a shabby, small town bar called _blue springs tavern_.

you've had a cheap beer and a shot of whiskey so far, but winn calls, and so you step outside into the humid, midwestern heat, and you answer your phone with a _what now?_

“hey, it's me," winn says, like you don't have caller id. "can we talk?”

you see something out the corner of your eye. you've always had wide peripherals, but your extensive field training made them wider, fuller, _clearer_.

you squint, but it's hard to make out—a figure leaning up against a busted streetlight, hovering the flame from their lighter in front of a cigarette.

all just shadows and silhouettes.

it's difficult to see out here, in this poor film noir lighting, so you move away to create some distance and the illusion of privacy.

you keep your eyes on the dark figure as winn rambles on and on about some complicated algorithm that would be impossible for you to solve without a visual, and you sigh, because this is why you hate work on the road.

this is why you don't volunteer for recruitment missions.

this is why you need to stop betting vasquez in pool, especially when winn insists on joining your team.

you hear the scraping of shoes, and you side-eye the figure again.

short. slim. _curvy_.

a woman.

the streetlight flickers, and it's fast, very fast, but you catch her profile, the plump of her lips as she purses her mouth and then blows a stream of smoke out into the humid nebraska air.

a metal ding rings out when she elbows the streetlight pole, and then a bulb flashes on, flooding the curb in fluorescent white.

winn's still rambling—about a lose captive and an alien getaway car—and it's not making much sense.

you're used to it, however, so you absorb the problem with ease, but j'onn is going to have a fit when he learns of what happened.

you instruct winn to call supergirl and guardian, get them to handle it, but winn's already three steps ahead of you and informs you of their current progress, so you sigh, relieved, just as the mysterious woman steps away from the curb and hovers a few feet behind you.

you lower your voice when you feel the woman's eyes slide over to you.

she's looking at you, you know it.

her gaze is resting on the back your neck, you _feel_ it.

you tell winn to transfer you over to kara's line, and when he does, kara's already spewing out excuses, and so you roll your eyes up to the sky, absently wondering if she's ever flown overhead.

"no, i don't care, kara. tell the ncpd to postpone the operation," you order, and kara agrees before asking a long-winded question about protocol that she should already know the answer to. "yeah, yeah, of course. and if their superior tries to contact you..."

kara fills in the blanks to finish your sentence for you, and you're reminded of how much you miss her, even if you're only gone for the weekend.

before hanging up, you tell kara to keep all of this mayhem as _hush hush_ as possible, because the easy escape and then eventual capture of your rogue alien will be easier for j'onn to swallow coming from you.

"okay, kara," you say, when she says that she loves you. "you, too. thanks."

you hang up and prepare to go back inside.

just one more drink to end the night and help you fall asleep; that's what you try to convince yourself, at least, but you already know you'll have more than just one. you'll drink until you feel it all over your body and then pass out, but before you can turn around, you're reminded of the mysterious woman behind you.

not like you ever really forgot.

there's still a tickle on your skin, at the back of your neck, and you get this weird feeling, like she leaves marks on everyone she looks at.

perhaps it's her eyes; they're dark, but they're warm.

inviting.

 _lingering_.

she saunters up to you from behind, slowly and casually according to her footsteps, but you can feel her presence, practically all over.

you're a deo agent.

you feel everything.

you notice _everything_.

especially attractive women.

you shift sideways as she lights another cigarette and then holds out the box to you. if you were ten years younger, you'd pretend like you smoked too, just to get her to talk to you, to touch you, but you're past that insecure phase in life, past that self-conscious milestone.

you've smoked enough cigarettes, and you've drank enough vodka shots to earn a woman's attention to last you a lifetime.

now it's time for her to make the first move, and she actually does.

“you know, this is what i've always liked about blue springs," she says, pulling the cigarette away from her lips to exhale. "these little moments on the sidewalk, smoking, thinking about your life. makes you appreciate the countryside better."

she looks around, at the empty streets, the red fire hydrant on the curb, the dark alleyway, the flickering streetlights. she's beautiful, in a dangerous way.

a disarming way.

an oddly refreshing way.

"you can watch the buildings. you can feel the air and look at the people," she continues, taking another huff of her cigarette. "sometimes meet somebody you feel like you can talk to.”

she's setting you up for something; you don't know what, but something. “talk to about what?” you ask, cautiously taking the bait.

“things you can say to a stranger. you know, when there's no past, there's no guilt." she says it like it's a known fact. like everyone has thought about this and stumbled upon the same conclusion. "have you ever made love to a perfect stranger?”

you smile despite yourself. “now you're teasing me.”

“i believe i am," she singsongs, and then she waits, and you're reminded of the question she just asked you.

“well, i mean..." you don't want to seem dull, but you don't want to lie either, so you say, "no, not exactly a perfect stranger—if you mean someone I wouldn't know _at all_.”

she gives you this look. this indecipherable look. “it's sad.”

“it's sad?" you echo. "why?”

“because there's almost nothing more exciting than fucking somebody you don't know," she says, and once again, you're caught off guard. "right? you don't know their name...barely saw their face....”

she's asking for your approval, but this isn't something you're proficient in. not like aliens or kara or guns. this is sex, and while you're no virgin, you've certainly never gone to bed with someone like her before.

you've been silent for too long, and her face changes, from flirtatious to curious, and then there's a hand sticking out, waiting for a shake, and you suddenly find yourself stepping away.

"don't," you say, and she looks taken aback, until you add, "don't tell me your name.”

you want her to be your stranger, whatever that means for the night. whatever that means limitedly. she's a distraction, and you hate distractions, because they cause mistakes and regrets and accidents, but while you fear all of that—all of that and more—you fear missed opportunities the most.

the mysterious woman smirks, that flirtatious gaze back in place as she blows a line of smoke into your face. “you know what?" she says, lips quirking a little as you cough and fan the smoke away in annoyance. "as soon as i finish this cigarette, i have to walk back into that bar and sit down again in front of my girlfriend.”

you don't believe her, because you know she's lying. you've been trained to read strangers like a cookbook, a road map, an instruction manual. there's no girlfriend.

there's no girl.

no friend.

no anything.

you know she's lying, but you don't know why. "...and?"

“and she won't look at me," the woman adds with a fake pout, "and she won't notice I'm not wearing a bra under my dress.”

your eyes trail down to her chest. you think you get the why now. “no bra?”

“no panties either.”

“oh..." your breath catches, despite your wariness. "no underwear?”

“not today," she whispers, like it's a secret, just between the two of you.

your body is buzzing, and you wish she was standing closer, but the woman seems to be rocking back and forth, only getting close enough to share her smokey exhales and nothing more.

you take a step toward her, and she doesn't move this time, and so you take another chance, and you say, "i feel sad for this poor, lonely woman who can't see her girlfriend's hidden talents.”

flirting is a game, but so is the art of conversation and gathering intel. you look at her carefully, and you wonder what the girlfriend represents.

its symbolism.

its purpose.

if the point is to make you jealous, it's not working, not in the slightest, but if it's to make you curious, to make you wonder about the woman's intentions, it's working like a charm.

her lip curls with a smile, and then she asks you another question: “don't you think she's like every girlfriend, though? she's typically blind and bored by her very own lady, ready to fantasize about the first unknown woman she hasn't fucked yet."

this game of hers; it's weird, and you don't know what to say, and so you look at her instead, eyelids hooded, lips parted, and you find you're unexpectedly horny and wanton for this stranger you've just met.

her hair glows under the fluorescent streetlight, and her dark eyes twinkle mysteriously, and her smirk only turns more dangerous when she leans into you, her lips grazing against the curve of your ear to whisper, "am I bothering you?”

“not at all," you whisper back, turning your head to press your skin against her skin, and when your cheeks touch, it feels like you've been here before.

this stranger feels like home, an unusual paradox within the odd happenings of this evening.

"and you say that because now i've turned you on, right? you want to take me to bed," she continues to whisper, fingers inching up around your waist. "do you want to take me to bed?”

“yeah, i probably do," you say, and so againstbetter judgement and the advice from the angel on your shoulder, you go for it, right here in the middle of the sidewalk.

you plan on meeting her halfway, eyes closed, mouth open, but she's gone in an instant with an obnoxious giggle, and you open your eyes to yet another exhale of smoke in your face.

"come on..." you cough, waving the smoke away yet again. left irritated, you say, "all right, why are you telling me all of this?”

you've had a long night, and if this is all just a ruse, a sport, a setup, you could be doing something better with your short time here in nebraska, like drinking yourself into a deep stupor, or taking advantage of the free room service that comes with being an undercover agent.

she laughs for another second and then drops her cigarette, steps on it until the flame goes out. “because tonight i want things to change. chain smoking's a bad thing," she admits, and then reaches forward to fix your crooked collar.

her eyes linger on you, and you wait, watching as her fingers travel down the seam of your shirt and back to your waist.

"who knows?" she whispers, pushing away from you with a lazy shrug. "maybe we'll meet again.”

you scoff.

you highly doubt it. 


	2. grapes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she doesn't really look like a margaret—that name sounds too serious, too mature, too old for such a young soul—but as you're stepping out to help load the truck, the tall woman scolds her niece for forgetting something, using the name maggie, and that's it.
> 
>  
> 
> _maggie._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title #2: When Alex Met Maggie
> 
> (based on and inspired by the dialogue from "When Harry Met Sally")

recruitment is a chore, not a job, and you don't know how vasquez puts up with it. if you had to do this every weekend, you'd probably quit, but vasquez has a soft spot for the position, you know. 

after all, she's on her honeymoon with one of the recruits she picked up years ago.

 _sickening_.

you checkout before noon and haul your ass into the moving truck parked just up the street.

your intel on the new recruit is limited to protect identity exposure, but you've got an address, of course, and so you get a move-on. the faster you pick up the newbie, the faster you can get back to your _real_ job.

you drive for about seven minutes up a long, dirt road and then park the van at the end of a dusty driveway.

you wait a few seconds, become impatient, and beep your horn.

nothing.

you skim through her file, just to make sure you've got the right place.

 **name** : margaret annabeth sawyer  
**age** : 21  
**height** : 5'3"  
**weight** : 121 lbs.  
**eye color** : brown  
**hair color** : brown

 **additional notes** : _recommended for recruitment by director hank henshaw of national city branch; under the impression she's joining the police academy._  

you roll your eyes, slightly amused, but then you whistle to yourself, also slightly impressed when you see her evaluation record and test scores.

this kid has... _potential_.

you wait a few more minutes, become even more impatient, and beep your horn again. the front door opens, and a tall, young woman appears, perhaps a couple years older than you. she waves at you, and you lift a hand in greeting, wondering if this is the new recruit, though you could've sworn she was younger, shorter.

but then the tall woman holds open the door, and it's _her_ , the mysterious woman with the fake girlfriend from last night, and _shit_. she recognizes you just as you recognize her, but she doesn't let on—not in her facial expression, at least, but there's a gleam in her eyes, a depth to them that pull you in, even as you're struggling to turn away and pretend you don't remember her.

she doesn't really look like a margaret—that name sounds too serious, too mature, too old for such a young soul—but as you're stepping out to help load the truck, the tall woman scolds her niece for forgetting something, using the name maggie, and that's it.

 _maggie_.

all she has is a couch, a few big boxes, a suitcase, and two tall lamps. you load it all up easy enough, doing your best to avoid eye contact, but she doesn't say anything about last night—about how she fucks strangers and doesn't wear panties—at least not in front of her aunt, and so you don't say anything either.

you wait as she says goodbye to her aunt on the porch, turning up the air conditioning to cool down your warm body.

their goodbye is long and heartfelt, and they almost remind you of yourself and kara. you look on, for a moment, but then she's heading back toward the truck, and so you busy yourself with the gps on your phone as she approaches.

“i have it all figured out," she says, hopping into the truck and then shutting the door behind her. "it's a twenty-one hour trip which breaks down into seven shifts of three hours each, or alternatively we could break it down by mileage. there's a map in my bag that i've marked to show the locations so we can change shifts.”

you side-eye her but don't mention that you'll be doing all the driving. she'll get it, eventually, when you don't make any pitstops for food, sleep, or bathroom breaks.

you're already running late, so you nod and then back out of the driveway.

you can feel her eyes on you, just as you did last night, but instead of piercing, now they're wondering.

//

you're both quiet for a long time as you reach the highway, and it's awkward— _painfully_ awkward.

you contemplate turning on the radio to drown out the tension, but before you can, maggie offers you a bag and shakes its contents near your face.

her eyes are bright, eager. “grapes?”

“no," you say, forcing a small smile that feels all wrong, "i don’t like to eat between meals.”

you see it coming before it even happens; maggie shrugs and then tries to spit the pit outside, but all it hits is glass, and you mean to mask your cringe, but it comes across your face anyway.

"i'll...roll down the window," she murmurs, doing just that, and you remind yourself to clean this truck before returning it to headquarters.

more silence, and normally you'd embrace it, but maggie keeps drumming her fingers against the dashboard, distracting you, and so you say, "why don’t you tell me the story of your life?”

you've never been the type to force conversation, but you're curious about her. you'll admit it, but only to yourself. there's something about her that you can't quite put a finger on. and you want to know what it is. you felt it last night as you stood outside the bar with her, and you still feel it now.

maggie side-eyes you. “story of my life?” she echoes, skeptical.

you shrug. “we've got twenty hours to kill before we hit national city.”

“the story of my life isn’t even going to get us out of nebraska," she laughs, sardonically. "i mean, nothing’s happened to me yet. that's why i'm going to the city.”

“so something can happen to you?”

“yes.”

“like what?”

she hums, thinking, but you know that she already knows, and eventually she answers, “i'll go into the police academy to become a detective.”

you press your lips together to remain neutral, because you know the police academy is not where you're taking her. not really. “so you can write out crime reports about what happens to _other_ people," you jest.

she stiffens at your joke. “that's one way to look at it.”

you don't mean to be rude, but it's how you've been programmed. discussions are never for fun. they're for assessment. conversations aren't for amusement, or getting to know people in a friendly manner. they're for character analysis and iq evals.

j'onn and supergirl are the ones who usually go undercover to recruit new agents, and they always find the best of the best, but just because you're curious, and just because you've got nothing but time on your hands, you conduct your own evaluation.

for science.

“suppose nothing happens to you. suppose you lived out your whole life and nothing happens," you say, setting up a hypothetical, just to get a feel for her outlook and attitude. you take your eyes off the road for a moment to catch her reaction. "you never meet anybody, you never become anything, and finally, you die in one of those national city deaths which nobody notices for two weeks until the smell drifts into the hallway.”

it's morbid, but she only laughs, despite your obvious pessimism. “you didn't mention you have a dark side.”

it's the first reference to last night, and it's unexpected, as you thought you'd both continue to act as if you've never before met. you look at her, but she's not fazed, and so you play off your surprise.

"it's what draws people to me," you say, not un-playfully.

maggie quirks her lips to the side. “your dark side..."

“sure," you drawl, tapping your thumb on the stirring wheel as you shift lanes, "why don’t you have a dark side?" she goes to answer, but you cut her off with a sardonic chuckle, "no, you’re probably one of those cheerful people who dot their eyes with little hearts.”

"i have just as much of a dark side as the next person.”

“oh really?" you say, amused, and you see her nod out the corner of your eye. "when i buy a new book, i always read the last page first. that way, in case i die before i finish, i know how it ends. that, my friend, is a dark side.”

maggie scoffs at you. “that doesn’t mean you’re deep or anything. i mean..." she trails off, shifting in her seat, "yes, basically i'm a happy person—"

“so am i."

“—and i don’t see that there’s anything wrong with that," maggie adds.

“of course not. you're too busy being happy," you say, and you're mostly joking, of course, but she does seem like one of those smiley people who are always smiling even when there's nothing to smile about.

those people make you nauseous.

you side-eye her. "do you ever think about death?”

you hear her scoff again and then mutter, “yes.”

“sure you do. a fleeting thought that jumps in and out of the transient of your mind," you predict, and when you look at her, this time, she's no longer smiling. you thought it'd quell your nausea. it doesn't. nevertheless, "i spend hours...i spend _days_ …”

she shifts in her seat again, turning her body towards the window and away from you. “and you think that makes you a better person," she mutters, shaking her head.

you sigh. no. of course not. it makes you alert and ready at all times. it keeps you on your toes, vigilant, on top of things—that constant prospect of death looming over you on every high-scale mission you're assigned to.

you're not saying any of this to tease her or annoy her or belittle her. you're saying it because it's your reality, and it's going to be hers one day too. “look, when the shit comes down, i'm gonna be prepared," you say, side-eyeing her one more time before turning the radio on, "and you’re not. that's all I’m saying.”

a bluesy tune seeps out of the speakers, and you relax back against your seat, convinced that this girl won't last one day in the academy, but then maggie speaks up again, causing your posture to go absolutely rigid.

"and in the meantime," she says, a patronizing lilt to her voice, "you’re gonna ruin your whole life waiting for it.”


End file.
